


May Not Deal in Doubt or Pity

by Westbrook



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beware of Boltons, Bloodshed, Bloody, Dark, Gen, Knives, Revenge, Torture, vengeance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 20:06:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Westbrook/pseuds/Westbrook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or: A Mother's Vengeance In 5 Acts. </p><p>He is gone, her Domeric, her son, her light, the hopes of his father and herself, all that he was and could be, gone. And now her husband proposes to bring his murderer to their home, where Domeric lies in the ground. Bethany Bolton rises, and there is something red and visceral in her eyes, a promise of a mother's vengeance. The bastard will never call the Dreadfort home, and he will come to know the words of House Bolton are true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	May Not Deal in Doubt or Pity

**Author's Note:**

> This is something that I've been working on for awhile, but it hasn't felt quite publishable until now. It's an AU following shortly after the death of Domeric Bolton in 296 AL. 
> 
> It's a Bolton fic, so warning, it's not going to be light and happiness.  
> The characterization of the Boltons in general and Bethany in particular is due a great deal to the works of sternflammenden, who is an excellent writer. *hat tip* 
> 
> Title comes from Rudyard Kipling's "The Female of the Species." 
> 
> P.S. I'm looking for someone to beta both the next couple of chapters of this fic, and some other ASOIAF stuff I've been working on. If you're interested, please let me know in the comments.

Bethany Bolton sits quietly, staring out the window, unseeing of the soft flakes of the summer snows, unknowing of the servants who come to dress her and clean her and feed her. Her husband does not come, but she would not have expected him to. It is cold, but it is Roose, and had she been able to, Bethany might wonder if Roose too was grieving in his own way. Her sister comes to visit once, staying awhile, but Bethany does not hear, does not acknowledge her, Barbrey does not matter. 

All that matters is her Domeric, her beloved boy, who came from her, is gone. After all of the blood and the work, the ones that never drew breath or died in their cradles, he had drawn breath, had cried loud and lusty and taken life from her breast. Domeric had grown, had walked and spoken and read and ridden, had begun to grow into the man he would become, the Lord he was meant to be, before he was taken away. All of his father's plans and her hopes, their dreams of how he would raise Bolton once more-Gone.

Bethany remembers when Domeric learns that he has a bastard brother, and announces that he intends to seek him out, to know him better. She remembers how her blood had frozen within her, colder than any winter before. She had looked to Roose then, looked to him to stop this, stop this madness, because she is not blind, she knows that the bastard is much like his ancestors, much the product of his birth, and she knows that Roose must stop this.  
But Roose does not stop this, does not stay his son, only stares at him with pale, pale eyes and says, “You will not like what you find,” before he dismisses him with a few curt, cold words. Domeric storms from the room (As much as he is able, as there is a queerness to her son’s demeanor, a gentleness combined with her husband’s precision and lack of emotion), and Bethany does not chase after him, does not sob, merely turns to her husband and inquires in the most polite of tones, hiding the sudden and overwhelming terror in her heart, “Is that wise, my husband?”  
Bethany will never forget how her husband turns to her, and says clearly, “I wash my hands of it Beth, of all of it” and that is that (And Bethany remembers other times when her husband had washed his hands of things, deep in the warrens beneath the Dreadfort). It is only later that Bethany will sob, will allow her terror to rule her. She pleads with Domeric, begs him not to go, cajoles, even commands, but he will not be moved, he insists that he wants to know the bastard, that he is the closest thing Domeric will ever have to a brother (Bethany feels guilt twist within her for that, wondering if her womb had only brought forth another living son, or even a daughter, that her Domeric would feel no need for the bastard's company, would still draw breath).  


She remembers how Domeric had ridden off with a pair of guardsmen, sitting proud and tall in his saddle, brimming with confidence. She remembers how he had returned, his shoulders slumped, weariness evident in his eyes, how he greets her dully, how he tells his father that he was right. She remembers the terror that seizes her when Domeric weakens, when he clutches at his belly, how there is nothing the maester or she can do to soothe or heal him.  
She remembers how he is forced to his bed, slowly being rendered incapable of walking, let alone riding, soon his harp becomes a burden. But Bethany keeps her hopes, praying desperately (Foolishly) that this is merely a bad sickness, a fever that will soon lift. But when the time comes that Domeric is unable to read, when the servants are forced to clean him from his filth and the blood that leaks from every opening, she knows that all she had were false prayers, a fool’s hope (A mother’s hope).

Bethany is there when he shudders still, his hand clenching around hers, those long, clever fingers tight, as his last breath rattles out, how his eyes had stared, unseeing, at the ceiling. She remembered turning to see Roose standing in the doorway, the strangest look in his eyes (Domeric’s eyes, the bastard’s eyes) though his face was utterly blank, appearing as though he was the embodiment of the southerner’s Stranger (and perhaps he was) before he had moved away in silence.  
She had sat there, disbelieving, until the maester had come, had pried her hand loose, remembers letting loose with a scream so wrought with pain and anger and loss that it seemed not formed from a human throat, as if she was trying to tell the world of her loss.

She does not remember much of the next few days, but she does remember Domeric's funeral, remembers his body, dressed in the finest silks and leathers, sliding into the ground, his tomb sliding over him, covering his face, Roose a cold, quiet presence beside her before swiftly and silently departing. She remembers standing staring at the tomb for hours, until her torch begins to gutter out and she must return to the Dreadfort (Bethany wonders what would have happened if she had stayed with Domeric there in the dark. She wonders if some part of her has). 

Bethany Bolton remembers, again and again and again.


End file.
